


No Gift Receipt Necessary

by capalxii



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3093452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capalxii/pseuds/capalxii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second chances, not-not-your-boyfriendisms, post "Last Christmas" smut. Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Gift Receipt Necessary

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing to note is that if you greatly dislike Pinkwald to an extreme degree you may wish to skip this one. Or at least skip the very end.

With a soft kiss to her shoulder, the light scratch of stubble sent little sparks down her neck. “All right?” he murmured against her skin. 

*

This was their second go of things. Their first had been—accidental, really. Hand in hand, stumbling out of the snow and into the TARDIS, her bare feet cold and wet against the metal grate but everything else warm. She had been smiling so hard her face hurt from it, giggling as she threw herself at him in a hug, and he, so deceptively wiry and lanky, had carried her as he'd leaned back against the console. The kiss had been natural after that, just a quick thing on his smile, a laugh itself shared with her lips against his; but their eyes had met, and something had clicked as he'd turned them around and she'd found herself backed against the console, scrabbling for purchase against it, him, anything she could reach as he leaned down over her. 

It had been fast. Her legs had wrapped around his waist, trapping him closer, and her hands had tugged him by his hair until he'd leaned in. He'd grabbed her hips, and pulled her until she could feel him hard against herself. Buttons had dug into her back, and his belt and slacks scraped at the insides of her thighs but somehow he'd gotten himself out, had barely pushed aside the thin, wet cotton gusset of her panties just enough to bury himself inside her. And he had buried himself: as slick as she was—how was that even possible, when it had only been moments since she'd been sleeping with an alien parasite on her face—it still felt like a shock when he'd slid in, and she knew the look on his face, the darkness of his eyes and the urgency with which he watched her, must have been mirrored on her own. Nothing about it was comfortable, nothing about it was particularly good, yet once he'd found his rhythm she'd found that sweet tension building up so fast she'd barely had time to register it before she was coming, clenching hard around his cock and digging her nails into his coat. He hadn't lasted much longer, his face pressed against her neck and his cock as deep in her as he could get it.

After, he'd raised his head and looked at her with what could only be described as bafflement. “Hello,” he'd breathed, and she'd laughed from the sheer shock of it.

“Some hello,” she'd muttered. She'd run her hands up his neck, cupping his face briefly before tangling her fingers in his hair. A smile for him softened his features, and she'd said, “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you tripped and fell in.”

He'd frowned, half playful and, she'd presumed, half still processing everything. “Are you sure I didn't?”

Her laugh had brought a smile to his face, and she'd pulled him back down for a kiss. With him leaning on his forearms, his tongue brushing against hers and the quiet sounds he'd made whenever her fingers found some spot he liked, she'd only dimly realized he was still hard inside of her.

Until he'd started moving again. Frowning slightly, she'd reluctantly pulled away from his kiss and asked, “Doctor? Are you--?”

“No refractory period,” he'd whispered. Nuzzling her neck, he'd added, “And a superior cardiovascular system, as well. Would you like me to stop?”

“No.” Then again--”Maybe. Can we find a bed?” He'd looked a little bashful about it, though she couldn't be sure if it was over her discomfort or over the TARDIS's, and pulled out. Suddenly empty, she slid down off the console and cuddled against him, her knees a little shaky and her overheated body seeking his strange coolness. “I missed you.”

His arms still didn't move easily around her, but he hadn't pulled away, had even pressed against the thin flannel of her nightgown when she pulled him down for a kiss. “Bed?” he murmured.

“Bed.”

*

“All right,” she said, smiling at him. 

The TARDIS had helped as much as she could, which was how they had ended up where they were at the moment; no bedroom had ever been this easy to find, though Clara suspected the TARDIS had simply wanted them out of the console room as quickly as possible. 

There was something achingly luxuriant about the hard heat of his cock sliding slick against her, not quite entering her, not quite creating enough friction to do more than frustrate. His hands were slower now, drifting up her back and then down again, to her hips, her waist, her thighs, leaving little trails of warmth and yearning in their paths; her own hands played with his hair and stroked his face, her thumb brushing his lower lip until he opened his mouth to her. Even in the dim light of the bedroom, he looked so expressive, his every thought playing out in front of her. Her own thoughts, her own eagerness and need to be with him, must have been just as easily read, as that was the only way she could explain the hunger and bewilderment with which he was looking at her. “How long have you wanted this?”

“In my time?” He shrugged and accepted her kiss. “Hundreds of years. Since I've known you. I didn't know I wanted it though.”

She pulled back and stared at him, on the border between laughter and disbelief. “How could you want it and not know?”

“I didn't think you were mine to want,” he said, “so it never crossed my mind.”

“Mmm.” She sighed and kissed his cheek, her hands finally making their ways down his neck and shoulders, stopping to press lightly against his chest. “And now you think I am?”

He frowned, but there was the sparkle of a grin in his eyes. “Perhaps it's more that I'm yours, and unable to deny you. I want what you want.”

With a nod, she reached between them and guided him in her again. “Stay still,” she murmured. This time, she knew they could move slower and she was grateful for it. Everything around them was forgotten and all she knew was his hands down her back, over her thighs, as she rocked with him deep inside her. “Do you want this?”

He looked adrift as he nodded, lost at sea with her, whispering things in a language she didn't understand as he kissed down her neck, her breasts, taking her in his mouth as his hand slipped between them. So caught up in the feel of his tongue and his fingers, for a split second she barely registered that he was moving her, flipping her onto her back and shifting her until her legs were over his shoulders and he was pressing into her again. “I want what you want,” he repeated, except this time his voice felt rougher to her, more raw and undeniably certain that this was exactly what she wanted. 

He was right, of course, and every move he made seemed calculated to bring her right to the edge more than once, never giving her quite enough to come until she was nearly begging for it. Only then, with her nails scratching down his back and sides, and her pleas breathed out after every little kiss, did he relent and give her what she needed. As before, he wasn't far behind; a distant, distant part of her wondered about whether there was some link between them, something not quite human and maybe psychic, but the rest of her was floating along and unable to process anything beyond the feel of him so close to her. 

Clara smiled up at him dreamily as he slipped out and gently let her legs down. “We should make this a regular thing,” she said.

“All of time and space,” he chided, “and you just want a snog box.” But he lay down next to her, tucking his head under her chin and draping an arm across her stomach. 

“You like it. Can you really get it up whenever?”

“It's good to know what you really want out of me, Clara, I can't begin to tell you-”

She laughed and squeezed him closer. There was no malice in his voice, nothing that made her in the least bit uncomfortable with him. “Hush,” she said. “What were you saying before? I didn't recognize the language.”

He opened his mouth to talk, and she was sure he was about to say something grumpy or sarcastic. But he hesitated, and then said, “It was Gallifreyan. I can...try not to use it, if it bothers you.”

“It doesn't.” She traced a finger down his jawline and kissed the crown of his head. “Speak it. It'll be good not to be rusty when we find your home.”

She felt more than saw his eyes clench shut at the mention. Before she could ask if she'd said something wrong, he propped himself up on one elbow and said, “I'm sorry I couldn't bring back Danny. If there's a way, I'll find it.”

By all rights, it should have been awkward—to bring up Danny at that moment, but there was an earnest note to the Doctor's voice and eyes, and she couldn't feel anything but warm and whole. Clara was struck suddenly by the notion that everybody leaves him eventually and the best thing he knew how to do was give them something good to leave with; a life, a happily-ever-after, a promise of a particular kind of tomorrow he knew she'd dreamed of was what he wanted to give her, however he could manage. “Hush,” she said again, pulling him back down. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, confused.

There were too many things to list, so she didn't answer. “What were you saying in Gallifreyan?”

“I was—it was a promise.”

He was too shifty with that answer, but Clara thought she might be able to fill in the blanks. “Then thank you for that.” When he didn't move or say a word, she looked down at him; eyes closed, face slack and calm, he'd fallen sleep. It wouldn't last very long—she didn't think he slept more than a few minutes at a time—so she took the opportunity to keep watch until her own eyes started to drift shut, lulled by the weight of his body and the strangely cheerful hum of his ship around them.


End file.
